The Job
by The Abbot of Beregost
Summary: Alternate events of Bastille Day. Meaty!


**The Job**

Gunnery Sergeant Craig Sims was having a rough day. First, he spilled his coffee before going on his shift as a makeshift cop. Then, the Old Man's son got taken hostage on the _Astral Queen. _Of course, everyone was just thrilled about that. Now, he and his men were kitting up to drag the flyboy's ass out of the fire. His men weren't happy about it either. He watched as the marines slipped on heavy boots, cleaned weapons. He shook his head, going through the ancient rituals of war. Push down, slip in a round. Ten clicks, tap the magazine, repeat. He heard someone rack a shotgun on the other side of the lockers.

The men were complaining and joking as they strapped on heavy webbing and vests, slipped in the nasty little tricks of the trade. Brass knuckles, garrotes, throwing knives, blackjacks- whatever got The Job done, quick and quiet. The Job was rarely done anymore- Marines were expected to be cops, guards, negotiators, but never actually Marines. This was a chance to do what everyone signed up to do: kick ass, take names, and save lives.

Everyone could hear Thrace arguing with the Colonel in the next room. The screaming matched ended with the Colonel telling Thrace, "You're a pilot, not a MARINE. This is a close combat mission for the people trained for it, PERIOD! Dismissed!" There were a few chuckles around the lockers. The rivalry between pilots and marines was an old one, and Colonel Tigh fought hard for his men. He had been a Marine, once upon a time. Tigh stormed in, looked across the collected soldiers, recognized Sims.

"Gunny, get the men together. We're going over this...again."

Sims yelled for everyone to fall in. Saul shook his head.

"I could have done that, son."

"Sorry sir."

The plan was simple- come in on Raptors, secure the gantries around the main cells, the engine room, and the bridge. Three teams of ten men, each armed with submachine guns, pistols, knives, shotguns, and whatever else they could carry. Each would secure an objective SILENTLY -and here the Colonel placed particular emphasis- before making the attempt to rescue Lee and the others. He took a good, long hard look at his men.

"Those are OUR people over there, gentlemen. If those fracking convicts so much as lay a hand on them, kill 'em all."

The Raptor ride was short and quiet, save Racetrack's attempts to strike up a conversation. Sims looked over his men, made sure they were ready. Two of the men had riot shotguns slung over their backs, in addition to their submachine guns. In confined quarters, a single buckshot shell could leave a man's chest looking like chunky salsa. Each shotgun carried eighteen shells, plus one in the chamber. Sims's lancejack -a twenty-six year old by the name of Sullivan- carried an assault rifle with optics, just in case. He had almost been left behind for Lt. Thrace, and was thankful for the opportunity to come along. It was intense- the men knew how dangerous things could be, especially with so many hostiles in a confined space.

They dropped down from the hole in the ceiling as quietly as they could, two at a time, and took up defensive positions. Sims' objective was the bridge, where the ship controls and armory were located. His men formed up on him, advancing through the wide halls with weapons raised. It was dark in the ship, hot and humid. The air reeked of unwashed men, bleach and fear. Fortunately, the ship was designed with prisoner transport in mind...so there would be few hidden surprises.

Advancing on a T-junction, Sims suddenly heard barking laughter. Everyone simultaneously crouched, and Sims pointed out his scout, Hernandez. He younger man nodded, advanced to the right corner as everyone stacked up behind him. Using in a small mirror, he checked around the corner. His gestures relayed the information. Two visible, with pistols. About six feet around the corner. Sims looked over his men, selected Sullivan to advance with Hernandez and deal with the sentries.

Sullivan crept forward, slipping his knife out of the sheath and palming off his rifle to another marine. Hernandez was ready with a garrote. The two convicts had their backs to the marines, guarding access to the rest of the ship from the main detention area rather than the other way around. In fact, it appeared that they were more focused on watching the proceedings down on the floor than their duties, and it cost them their lives. Quietly, the pair advanced within two feet of their prey. The scout struck first, looping the fine steel wire around the closer prisoner's neck, pulling up before crossing his arms tightly. Hernandez dropped his weight, slamming the man's upper back onto his knee and dragging him back into the hall. The impact made no sound, but drove what little air there was in the convict's lungs out. The struggle lasted perhaps five seconds before the prisoner expired. In that same instant, Sullivan had grabbed the other man's head and driven his combat knife into the base of his skull, killing him instantly. Both bodies were dragged out of sight of the detention area and piled around the corner, the guns jammed into the marines' waistbands. It happened in seconds, silently, without a soul noticing.

They advanced down the left junction quickly. They had to move up a set of steel stairs before advancing straight onto the bridge. The marines would have to assault it as quietly as possible, and that meant a steel on steel fight. Without subsonic ammunition, their suppressed weapons were still loud enough to attract attention. Hernandez scoped it out as best he could with the mirror, spotting another pair of guards. Sims ordered him men as far up the steps as possible, knives out. Taking a mag from the pouch, he aimed it down the stairs and pushed the top round out. It clattered as it fell on the grating. At first, it didn't seem like they heard it, but as Sims prepared to push out another bullet, a female scream tore through the air. The guards dashed right into their arms, and were quickly and messily cut down. The squad was running up the stairs now, sound concerns forgotten. They were harming hostages now, and no one needed to be told. The Job had to get done before any more of their people were hurt.

Sullivan's boot hit the bridge door hard, sending it flying open. He pulled his knife and then there were black-clothed soldiers tearing into the room. Vengeance was their only thought as they subdued everyone there. They all had their choice weapons drawn on the stairs, and put them to good use now. Sullivan and Hernandez jumped on the closest inmate, armed with a shotgun. Sullivan slashed at him high, while the scout drove his fighting knife into his kidneys. The men storm past them, Sims watching another prisoner take some brass knuckles to the face.

They were all dead inside of a minute, but not before the gunshot rang out. Sims left Hernandez and his fireteam to hold the fort as he, Sullivan and his men dashed to the gantries.He arrived to see Bravo and Constellation in a Mexican standoff with the inmates. While the Marines had high ground and better guns, there was no way they wouldn't take losses. Finally, he heard Lee screaming.

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

Sims looked down, barely taking his eyes off the convicts. Lee was standing there like an idiot, hands in the air despite the fact he was in the middle of a mob of angry, violent criminals. Sims felt like screaming. What a moron.

Lee talked down Zerek, though. It took hours. Eventually, all of the guards' weapons were confiscated and the hostages returned at gunpoint. Sims sat through the Raptor ride back, thinking one thing:

_This is exactly why pilots should never get out of a cockpit. _


End file.
